Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

There's a story on my tongue.
It's sour like lemon, cold like snow, 
It rams against my teeth in search of freedom, Begging for me to let it go. 
To slip from my mouth and let it echo, 
I must loosen the grit of my teeth, 
Release it from its iron cage, 
So that it may tear away from me.
This story is a poison, 
For which no antidote was made, 
But the paper is a pain killer, 
One that keeps the reaper at bay.
When the story settles in my lungs,
I find it impossible to breathe, 
And once my lungs are cut by the edges, 
The story destroys everything. 
I hold secrets which cannot be silenced, 
My only relief is the pen, 
For those who know the story know, 
The silent hell I'm in.